number nine.
my little garden life.
apparently,
it is september now.
the acorns are smooth and round beneath my feet,
spread across the yard like small helmeted harbingers of fall.
the breeze is blessedly cool, twirling the first fall leaves across the lawn in a quickstep.
the garden is squeezing out the last zucchini and tomatoes, a knotted mess of vines and leaves and buds and pods.
but I can close my eyes and remember the sunny afternoon in early may when it all began.
the blissful feeling of being outside in the warm spring air after the last cold snap.
colorful seed packets. tottering tomato plants. a new plan to ditch the containers and grow right here in the ground. unabashedly planted, making space for this growth.
but first to dig out the prickle bush of death.
foul fiend, propagator of pain, supplier of stabbing stalks, enemy of everyone.
oh-so-deeply rooted in the garden. stubborn and stagnant.
no. you must go.
beauty is moving in and your sharpness is not needed here.
ah, you’re going to put up a fight are you?
fine then.
the whole afternoon is mine to spend and you will lose this fight.
THAT I can promise you.
beauty is moving in here.
and you will not persist.
ha.
told you.
you’ve spread your thin, reedy roots far and wide, but I am patient.
I will get them all.
every weed must go.
I know they’ll be back.
it’s ok.
let’s take this one day at a time, shall we?
the weeds are gone (for now).
the soil is weary here, sucked dry by long late nights of no rain.
it’s time for something new.
new soil, rich and dark and smelling of possibilities as it falls between my fingers.
the old and new mixes.
this is good.
this newness is going to bring beauty.
let’s add a border. a boundary wall of protection.
one stiff rain will take all the new away and leave the sodden old behind if we don’t plan ahead.
boundaries are good.
boundaries prepare us for beauty.
but there is so much newness…it’s too much.
as much as I want to, my arms will not, cannot stretch across this whole potential for growth. I will not be able to reach the goodness or weed out the dangers.
ah, some stepping stones.
(well. tree cookies, in this case.)
years of growth, rings of repetition, a tree planted decades before I even existed.
seemingly dead but allowing me to reach further into that which will soon be bursting with life.
and lastly, the plants. seedlings of hope. fragile and fluttering in the evening breeze.
welcome to your new home, little ones.
I have big plans for you.
seeds are sown, night is here.
rows of carrots and beets, seeds no bigger than a gnat.
morning glories, green beans, wildflowers.
cukes and zukes, mixed up (whoops) but tucked gently under the blanket of soil.
spindly strawberries, alarmingly-leaning lettuce, a trellis and tomato cage army.
the stars are coming out, and now we rest.
beauty needs her sleep.
and now we wait and water.
water and wait.
wait and water and…
wait!!!
*incomprehensible squeals of excitement*
the tomatoes are going to be tall this year. I can feel it.
Gammie, I’ve never forgotten your best gardening tip: panty hose ties.
soft and strong and stable. just like you were.
I miss you.
this beauty reminds me of you.
little visitors, hopping on through.
you are welcome here, friend.
it’s june now.
the lettuce is leafing, the birds have eaten every single strawberry, and the green beans are just beginning to find their way up the trellis.
and I still can’t tell whether the cukes or zukes are doing splendidly.
oh well. time will tell.
beauty always takes its time.
water and wait.
wait and water.
the tomatoes are shooting past the tops of their cages, wild to grow and stretch and show me what they can do.
time to tie them up with string, carefully stretched from gutter to gutter.
beauty needs a little stability thrown in from time to time.
it’s july now. the weight of 40 tomatoes making their debut has caused my string plan A to collapse.
on to string plan B. I can still fix this.
the first tomato appears, red and round and warmed through by the sun.
hey siri, are five foot tall tomato plants…normal?
ohhhhhh.
it was zuchinni seeds.
it’s august now.
the tail of hurricane debby sweeps through the county the day before I leave for a week-long trip.
six foot tall vines are flattened, my plan B a mangled mess.
I spend the night before I leave attempting to salvage the damage, stringing vines up as best I can, leaning broken plants anywhere that will hold their sagging weight.
unripe tomatoes fall with thuds at my feet, even as I try to rescue them with a delicate hand and bated breath.
beauty can be broken.
august is circling for her landing.
it’s time for plan C.
I can’t fix this but I know someone who can.
sometimes, friends with hardware and drills and fifteen minutes at the end of their long workday are the best kinds of friends.
beauty needs community.
and seven foot tall tomato plants need metal anchors in the roof, apparently.
beets are beautiful, but sometimes you still can’t grow beets.
even after four years of trying.
oh well.
there’s always next year.
because apparently,
it’s september now.
the air is crisp, the garden is dying, and my garden of life is bearing fruit in ways I never dreamed it could.
and this morning, I happened to look over into my tangled, chaotic, loveable mess of a garden and stop in my tracks.
I had given up on those morning glories.
it just wasn’t their year. the soil was wrong. the seeds were faulty. I didn’t know.
oh, was I wrong.
beauty… she is here.
